fact, startled by this move.

It was now quite dark. Two women, tattooed with rouge, who were
drinking black-currant liqueur at a grocer's counter, saw the young
woman and called her. She paused at the door of the shop, replied in a
few soft words to the cordial greeting offered her, and went on her
way. Andrea, who was behind her, saw her turn into one of the darkest
yards out of this street, of which he did not know the name. The
repulsive appearance of the house where the heroine of his romance had
been swallowed up made him feel sick. He drew back a step to study the
neighborhood, and finding an ill-looking man at his elbow, he asked
him for information. The man, who held a knotted stick in his right
hand, placed the left on his hip and replied in a single word:

"Scoundrel!"

But on looking at the Italian, who stood in the light of a
street-lamp, he assumed a servile expression.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, suddenly changing his tone. "There
is a restaurant near this, a sort of table-d'hote, where the cooking
is pretty bad and they serve cheese in the soup. Monsieur is in search
of the place, perhaps, for it is easy to see that he is an Italian
--Italians are fond of velvet and of cheese. But if monsieur would
like to know of a better eating-house, an aunt of mine, who lives a
few steps off, is very fond of foreigners."

Andrea raised his cloak as high as his moustache, and fled from the
street, spurred by the disgust he felt at this foul person, whose
clothes and manner were in harmony with the squalid house into which